


Gravity

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Elevators, F/F, Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-14 03:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14126694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Five times Natasha accosted Pepper in an elevator with a gun (and one time she didn't).





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleurting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurting/gifts).



> Timelines here are completely out of whack and changed for narrative purposes.

Pepper is still working for Killian, twenty-five years old and newly hired by AIM, when she first meets Natasha.

She hasn't become Natasha yet, is only a girl holding a gun, a gun trained _on Pepper_ , and goddamit, she knew this wasn't exactly going to be a holiday, no matter how many times Killian called it a “work holiday”, but a _gun_ is a little too much. Especially when the person holding it looks maybe fourteen, maybe sixteen, but no older.

“Please put that down,” she says faintly, pressing her back against the wall of the elevator. Maybe if she presses hard enough it'll give way ( _why_ did she decide to use the service elevator? Oh, right, because Killian). In her dreams. It's the only way to escape, though, the girl having thoroughly covered both the emergency call button and the doors with her body.

The girl gives her a beady-eyed stare, but otherwise doesn't move or speak.

Pepper bites her lip. Why oh why does it have to be her stuck in a moving elevator with the crazy teenager. “We can talk it out, please. What's your name? We can talk to your parents—”

“I don't have any parents.” The girl's voice has the barest trace of an accent, Eastern European, maybe, but her vowels are perfectly American, perfectly California. And that's not really relevant right now, Pepper, focus.

Why did she try the parents line anyway? Teenagers holding guns aren't likely to have parents who care enough to stop them from holding aforesaid guns. “Please put the gun down. I'm sure there must be _someone_ you can talk to.”

The girl laughs, but there's no humour in it. “You're very naïve, Miss Potts.”

“I—” Pepper stops. She hasn't told the girl her name. She didn't tell the girl her name. A cold thrill of fear runs through her. So this is _targeted_. Why anyone would target her, she doesn't know, because she has no exes, no secret enemies, and definitely no mob connections. She's a twenty-four-year-old secretary. “What do you want?” She keeps her fear out of her voice, keeps her tone steady. She has practise, with Killian, but gracefully declining your boss' offers to—molest you is somewhat different from keeping your cool with a gun pointed at your head. She hopes she hasn't let any of the pure terror show.

The girl smiles. It's not a nice smile. “I was sent to kill you, Miss Potts.”

 _What do you want from me._ She digs her fingernails into the palm of her hands, doesn't give voice to the awful creeping feeling suffocating her. If she's going to die, she's not going to beg.

The girl's not finished, though. “But I think now that there's another purpose to this mission. And I think—if I kill you, I'm going to fail.”

Pepper wants to let out the breath she's holding, but she doesn't. Not yet. There's still danger. (What if she's supposed to be kidnapped and/or horribly tortured and mutilated? What if—stop, Pepper. Stop.) “So you're _not_ going to kill me? Just to clarify.”

“You've gotten lucky today, Miss Potts.” The girl punches a button (not quite steadily, a vague corner of Pepper's mind notices), and the elevator slows to a halt. “Please don't tell anyone I was here, though. If you do I'll actually have to kill you.”

And then she's gone as quick as she came. Pepper sinks to the floor, not caring about the thin coating of grime it's acquired, and exhales.

Her hands are shaking. She's alive, though, and that's all that matters, she supposes.

 

**—**

 

The second time, she's twenty-eight and _sick_ of Killian's bullshit, grumbling to herself as she makes her way down almost-deserted corridors at one in the morning. She should've camped out in the office, maybe, when she knew she was going to finish work late, but. Killian. Braving the midnight streets is infinitely better than his creepiness all over her the next morning in a way that makes her skin crawl, so she steps into the elevator.

Only to be greeted by a gun to her head.

“ _Jesus_.” She almost bites her tongue off. Once was enough, thank you very much, but twice? Twice is the world out to get her. She's a secretary, not a mob boss; how on earth does this keep happening?

“Get your hands up and turn around. Slowly.” The voice is nigglingly familiar, some part of Pepper's mind searching for a face to match it even as she does as she's instructed, her body tensed up in fear or anger, she doesn't know which.

The person holding the gun is a woman, if barely that, red hair falling in a perfectly straight line shielding her face from Pepper. Her body radiates danger (which, gun, but still), and something in the way she's standing makes it seem like Pepper knows her.

Which is a complete distraction from the fact that she's being held at _gunpoint_ at _one_ in the fucking morning. (Because, obviously, her life sucks like that.)

Then the gunman (gunwoman? What's the gender-neutral and/or feminine term for someone who's got a gun pointed at you?) turns and Pepper's suddenly got a better view of her face.

“ _Shit_.” She didn't mean to either swear or speak aloud.

But it's the girl from three years ago, from the elevator (and isn't that a coincidence?). And she's grown. She looks good, and she's definitely not a girl any more. Pepper isn't really into seventeen-year-olds (though she's long since accepted, if reluctantly, her attraction to women), but. The girl is exactly her type.

And what the fuck. Why is she even thinking about how she'd like to fuck her would-be murderer? She wrenches her gaze to the girl's face. (Which doesn't help because even her face is perfect in an eerily doll-like way.)

The girl smiles very, very pleasantly. “Hello, Miss Potts. Fancy seeing you here.”

“It's Ms. Potts,” Pepper corrects automatically. Then, “Are you an assassin for hire or something?”

“Or something,” the girl agrees. Then, “I need to find the office of, oh, something Killian? I can't remember his first name, but it doesn't really matter, because _you_ are going to help me.”

“No I'm not,” Pepper says. It's a half-hearted protest. The bone-deep terror has finally asserted itself, and she's decided that as long as she's not going to die by that gun she doesn't care what she has to do. Killian is not a man whose secrets she's willing to protect with her life.

“Yes you are,” the girl snaps, “unless you want to die. So walk.”

Pepper walks.  


There's no-one in the office but her, at least. And the girl, but the girl is silent, melting into the shadows like she's not walking beside Pepper with the muzzle of her gun nudging Pepper's side.

Pepper has the keys to Killian's office, but her hands are clammy with sweat, and she fumbles them, dropping them onto the floor, where they land with a loud clink.

She expects the muzzle of the gun to press more insistently, but it doesn't. Instead, the girl sighs. “Hurry up, won't you.” (Her accent is perfectly American, now, a bland, flavourless accent of the sort favoured by movie stars. Pepper wonders briefly about the change, but sets it out of her mind.)

Pepper hurries. It takes a few tries, but she opens the door.

The girl is inside in a dash, pushing Pepper in, too (her skin burns at the contact even through layers of cloth) and locking the door behind her. She nudges Pepper to the chair in front of the desk. “Sit. _Stay_.”

Pepper sits and stays. (With the help of some rope the girl produces from somewhere on her person, but. Details.)

The girl opens Killian's computer. Her fingers fly across the keyboard, almost faster than Pepper can see, and she plugs something in—a thin stick, one of those newfangled USBs.

The thing is, Pepper's bonds don't feel that strong. She _could_ grab the girl's gun, probably, and try to make a bid for freedom. It might even work, because the girl's leaving her basically unattended.

But it might also end in one or both of them dying, and Pepper really, really doesn't want to die. And also she's become oddly calm now, not nervous any more, and rationality has re-asserted itself to mention the fact that she has negative training with a weapon and couldn't take the girl in a fight if the girl fought blindfolded and one-handed.

So instead of doing something foolish and heroic she sits tight and watches the girl. (Can anyone really blame her? The girl is all lean, trim muscle and impassive deadliness. It's ridiculously attractive.) Although it's kind of strange that this is the second time she's met the girl and she still doesn't know her name.

Pepper voices this thought aloud, because she's curious, okay?

“Natalia,” the girl says shortly, still absorbed in her work.

“Is that your real name or your fake one?”

The girl—Natalia—doesn't reply verbally, only shrugs.

“Who do you work for?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

“I would, actually.”

The girl sighs deeply. “Would you like me to gag you? I can if you don't shut up.”

Pepper shuts up.

It takes maybe ten minutes for Natalia to finish up, shut down the computer, and wipe the mouse, screen, and keyboard with some sort of cloth and spray. “It was nice seeing you Pepper.” Then she fucking _winks_ , leaning down to brush Pepper's cheek with a finger.

“Oh, by the way, I didn't disable some of the security cameras. You'll probably be fired tomorrow, when they find you here.” The whisper is accompanied by a smirk. “You're welcome.”

 

**—**

 

The third time, she's a new Stark Industries employee, going to work nice and early, because the best way to get promoted out of the secretarial pool is to be better and more hardworking than everyone else.

“Don't move,” someone says when the elevator doors _ding_ to signal they've opened, and she knows by now it's Natalia. “I have something for you.”

Pepper turns, slowly, because she's bad at following instructions and also because she's curious. Equal parts terrified and curious, but the curiousness is there.

Natalia's holding a small package, and has a gun trained on Pepper. “Here. This has some information on your competitors that Stane's wanted for a long time. It'll get you promoted.”

That—

“Who did you kill for this.” It's an automatic statement, but Pepper regrets it the moment Natalia's face closes off.

“I'm helping you,” she snaps. “For some goddamn reason I'm _helping_ you. So take the damn thing.”

She sounds—almost hurt? That's a surprise.

Pepper's grabbing Natalia's wrist before she can think. “Wait! I'm sorry.”

Natalia gives her a _look_. Pepper knows, somehow, that she's telling her not to be an idiot.

Pepper doesn't let go off her arm, though. (It feels nice, for one, and it's difficult to force herself to unhand Natalia.) “Thank you, Natalia. Really. On behalf of SI—”

Natalia laughs. It's a strange sound. “This wasn't for SI. This was for _you_.”

She slips out of Pepper's grip while Pepper is still blinking.

“Thank you,” Pepper manages. “I mean it. Thank you.” Then, “Why?”

Natalia smiles faintly. “You asked me my name.”

 

**—**

 

The fourth time, it's three a.m., and Pepper's too sleepy to care that there's a gun at her head. She hasn't slept for seventy hours straight, because Tony is a much better employer than Killian but terrible at keeping regular hours, and she's on the verge of collapse.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you, Natalia, that's very flattering,” Pepper says.

There's a chuckle, and then the gun disappears from her head. Pepper turns around to find Natalia staring at her, and—

“You look terrible too.” Because she does. She's thinner and pale and her lips looked chewed through, and she looks—tired. Not like a perfect doll anymore, exhausted and conflicted and stressed, and as if someone's got a gun pressed to her head (hah).

Natalia smiles, and even the smile is bone-deep tired and looks as if it was pulled up from some deep reserve of strength. “The people who I work for—”

“Who are they, anyway?” Pepper can't help interrupting, because after this long without sleep she doesn't have a filter.

Natalia presses a finger against Pepper's lips. (Her mouth suddenly becomes very dry.) “Pepper. My employers have sent me to kill you.”

 _Oh_. There's something unpleasant happening in Pepper's stomach, and a rolling wave of nausea rises up her throat. She can't breathe, all of a sudden, and it's silly but somehow she wanted—and she's going to die—and dammit—

“I'm not going to kill you.” Her hand is stroking Pepper's back, and it's oddly soothing even if Natasha's going to murder her and hide the body later on.

“Natalia—”

“Natasha.” There's a clink which, Pepper realizes, is the sound of a gun falling on the floor. “You can call me Natasha, Pepper. And I'm not going to kill you.”

Then a thud, and when Pepper looks up, still shaking and gasping for breath, Natalia's sitting on the ground, her legs crossed. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

“Your employers—”

Natalia takes Pepper's hand, and Pepper lets her; her grip is warm and dry. “I told them to go fuck themselves.”

The words are so shocking than Pepper allows herself to fall to the floor when Natalia tugs. “Natalia—”

“It's Natasha.” There's something awfully vulnerable in Natalia's eyes. She looks young, for a second, young in a way she's never looked before. And no matter how much Pepper screams at her traitorous heart, it insisting on hurting. “Everyone I care about calls me Natasha.”

 _Oh_. And that's a different sort of realization. Pepper curls her fingers around Natal—Natasha's palm, not sure what else to say.

“I'm too valuable for them to risk me over one order.” Natali—Natasha grins, and Pepper is abruptly reminded of their first meeting. “I've been with them since before I was a teenager. They trained me for a long, long time. They're not going to kill me for not completing one mission.”

Pepper's not sure what to say to that ( _before_ she was a teenager, what the hell); instead, she rolls the new name around on her tongue. “ _Natasha_.” And Pepper knows enough Russian to know what Natasha's giving her, and her throat is suddenly tight. “I guess I can tell you to call me Pepper, but you're doing that anyway. Which is fine, of course, I don't mind, but I guess if you need me to say it, I'll say it, because I do, too, you know—”

“Pepper.” Pepper stops speaking at Natasha's grin. And oh, that's actually a real smile, and the realization makes her feel warm. “You're tired. Come here.”

Pepper closes her mouth, and goes.

Natasha pulls her into a lying position, and normally Pepper would protest (the ground is horribly dirty in all elevators; that's a known fact), but Natasha's right, she's tired. So she allows Natasha to manhandle her. And then Natasha's stroking her hair, and it feels so good, and Pepper feels herself relaxing, sagging boneless and limp onto the floor, and—

She falls asleep with her head on Natasha's lap. When she wakes up as the elevator chimes for the ground floor, Natasha's already gone. The only thing that's left behind is her jacket, balled up under Pepper's head.

 

**—**

 

The fifth time, Pepper is almost ready.

She's taken to hoping that she meets Natasha again every time she enters an empty elevator (it's silly, it's completely, utterly silly, but Pepper doesn't care), but when they finally come face-to-face again, the elevator is actually crowded.

There's a gun pressed against her side, and that's always going to be an unpleasant surprise no matter what, but she knows before she looks sideways who's going to be holding the gun. “Hello, Natasha. Fancy seeing you here.”

“Surprise,” Natasha says dryly. “I'd have brought a present, but my employers don't look kindly upon fraternizing with marks.” Her voice is barely even loud enough to qualify as a whisper, hot breath against Pepper's ear. The other people in the elevator are looking away; Pepper knows what this probably looks like. (She also knows what she wants this to look like. Or rather, to _be_.)

“Speaking of which—”

“That's what I actually want to talk to you about.”

Natasha's free hand is on her waist now. It's difficult to focus on her work, but Pepper somehow manages. “ _Really_.”

“Really.” Natasha's rubbing slow circles into her skin over her shirt. Pepper is sure her skin must be bright red. She certainly feels warm; it's not just her face or the spot Natasha's rubbing that's tingling.

The lift empties (maybe faster than it should, because there is a certain awkwardness in watching your boss' PA be felt up by another woman) until it's just the two of them. Natasha detaches herself from Pepper and jams the stop button.

“Well,” Pepper says as the elevator creaks to a halt. “I'm not going to be giving up Tony's secrets to you, no matter how much you wave that gun at me—”

Natasha kisses her.

It starts off gentle, just a press of Natasha's lips against hers, but the gentleness doesn't last long. Natasha bites and sucks and does _things_ to Pepper, and it feels pretty damn good.

Pepper's flushed and panting, taking in great big gulps of air, by the time they break apart. Natasha's still holding her tight, her body flushed against Pepper's, and Pepper can feel her heart racing. Or maybe it's Natasha's she's feeling, chest-to-chest as they are.

But when she moves in for another kiss, Natasha shakes her head. “As pleasant as that was, I didn't actually come here to kiss you.”

And here come the extortions or demands or whatever else Natasha has been instructed to do this particular day.

But instead of an extortion, Natasha says: “I'm leaving.”

“What.” Pepper blinks. Talk about a non sequitur.

“I'm leaving my, ah, employers,” Natasha clarifies. “I'm out. Done.”

Pepper doesn't quite know what to say. She's—her mind is blank, really, and she doesn't know what to say, except—

Natasha's still speaking. “Pepper. I don't know if I'll be able to see you again.”

“Oh.” And she knows she sounds pathetic, but she doesn't care. It's not _fair_. Natasha kissed her and she's leaving. Pepper knows she sounds about twelve, but it really, really isn't fair.

“Pepper.” Natasha's hand is on her cheek, suddenly, and she's so close to her that Pepper can feel her breath. “I might be able to see you again, but I might not. I'm going to have to shop around, and—” She closes her eyes. From where she's standing, Pepper can count her eyelashes. “They ordered me to kill you again. I couldn't. I won't.”

Pepper makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat. “Natasha—”

Natasha quiets her with a kiss.

“Promise me,” Pepper says quietly, when they break away, “that if you can, if it's at all possible—”

“I'll find you.” Natasha kisses Pepper again, hard and fierce, wiping Pepper's tears away with a delicate finger. (And isn't that strange, Pepper herself hadn't realized she'd been crying.) “I promise I'll find you.”

 

**—**

 

The sixth time happens five years later. She's almost forty and CEO of Stark Industries, and she needs someone to watch Tony and make sure the signing over goes smoothly, because today has been absolute hell, filled with chaotic board meetings and employees who just don't understand what she needs them to do.. A day in the life of every new CEO.

Not every CEO is emailed the files of potential hires ('hires' only in the loosest sense, because they're all SI employees from different branches) by a HR person she _knows_ is a SHIELD agent, though. Fury is keeping an eye on her and Tony. She's vaguely annoyed, but she has more important things to see to. As long as the people she's sent are competent, she doesn't care.

And so it is that she ends up instructing Natalie Rushman, SI legal employee extraordinaire and the least likely to be a SHIELD agent, to enter her office for an interview.

Natalie Rushman, when she comes in, looks _familiar_. And it's been five long, crazy years, but the moment she comes in, Pepper realizes—

“Good morning, ma'am,” she says, the little shit, as if Pepper doesn't _know_ her, as if she couldn't pick her out of a crowd from a hundred meters away.

Something that she hadn't even realized was missing clicks into place. “Good morning. Natasha.” Pepper smiles, and sees Natasha smile in return.


End file.
